I Married a Musketeer
by sallyboy
Summary: Did they ever discuss children? This story is for Deborah, who keeps giving me ideas! Love ya :)


I Married a Musketeer

 _Constance_

It was only later – much later – in a rare moment of quiet reflection did she realise what it sounded like. Why the Queen had looked at her so shocked, had made that strange remark about being out of touch. That was not what she'd meant, to imply some sort of criticism of the Queen. Nor had she meant to sound like she did not want to be a mother herself. No, what she'd meant was, well, what HAD she meant? That the prospect of bringing a child into this world, this life, scared her. That she'd got used to being independent and worried who would do her job, were she not able. That she had only just got her husband back and she didn't know who he was anymore. That she wanted time to know this new man (a war hero, no less!) before she became a mother and things changed again. These were the fears she couldn't share this with anyone, because everyone, EVERYONE, expected her to be so pleased to have him back that they assumed she would be pregnant in short order. Had they been any other couple that would probably have been the case, but she was busy with the Garrison, he was often tired and he had never been the sort of man to pressure her – quite the opposite! So under the pretext of wanting to 'take all the time we can since we don't have to hide any more', they relearned each other's bodies, she learned to shave him (though she saved the kisses until she'd finished), he learned to put up her hair, only to undo all his good work by immediately taking it down! (He claimed he needed the practice). It was lovely and intimate and it was not going to last. If left too long, the delicious tension would turn sour and fun languish on the floor like discarded clothes.

 _d'Artagnan_

When he was at the front, he hadn't thought about coming home to Constance, to Paris, about what it would all mean. Well, actually that wasn't quite true, he'd thought about her every day. What he hadn't thought about was how to live that life with her, away from the battlefields and cannons, a proper roof over his head, a warm bed and her in it. Even so, any romantic notions of Paris being a sanctuary were rudely shattered when he spent his second night in Paris in the Chatelet, for doing his duty! Since that time he had noticed a good many changes. Constance for one. She was still as beautiful as ever, her heart still his alone (she would never know he'd worried it may be otherwise). But sleep did not always erase the lines of tension around her eyes, nor soften her sometimes abrupt manner. He'd held her, trying to smooth the lines away as she slept on his shoulder, wanting to ease the burden she carried, to feel her and know her again, every available night since he's returned, and was glad of it. But the tension was almost too thick and he wanted to give himself to her completely and (God willing) give her a child. That would give him hope for the future and make all that he was doing even more worthwhile. He could feel that she wanted him too, but still she held back. He wondered why, many times, as sleep overcame him while he stroked her hair.

 _After the death of Governor Feron_

'I thought I'd lost you'. Her voice a whisper, barely more than a breath, as he unlaced her corset and steadied her as she stepped out of her skirts. He couldn't see her face, but beneath his hands he could feel her tension and there was a scent of … fear? He stilled his hands for a moment, trying to understand what his senses were telling him.

Oh.

So that was what this was.

They had discovered anew a great many things about each other as they set about rekindling their passion, building an understanding, but this was a fear he would never know.

He breathed out slowly, weighing his words very carefully. 'Constance', he said, turning her as he spoke, 'You are the reason I fought so hard. I fought hard to live so I could come home, be a husband to you, a father to our children. I **fought** for France. But I **lived** for you.'

She looked down at his face and the raw emotion there threatened to buckle her knees. He felt her sway, gathering her to his lap before gently easing her onto the bed to sit next to him. She reached for his hand as the words tumbled out, telling of the lonely years in Paris, of the changes in the garrison, the fear he would not return, that she would be left alone, a widow with a soldier's pension whilst he laid buried, forgotten, she knew not where.

There it was, the fear of life without him. Boxed up, tucked away, in a corner she hoped he wouldn't notice. An ugly thing, leftover from the time before they were married. She looked spent, hands twisting in his, waiting to see what his response would be.

Gently, he let go of her hands, cupped her cheeks and kissed her softly. Then he looked at her, holding her face and said 'Please listen to me.' He explained that Porthos, Athos and Aramis considered her family, as they did him, and as such would take care of her (God forbid) in his absence. He reminded her that she was a friend to the Queen of France, that the First Minister listened to her, had even been known to do her bidding. (That caught her attention. She'd have a firm word or two to Clairmont about discretion next time she saw him.) Then he talked about the one thing he could not do without her – make a family. A gift to each other, a living expression of their love, a promise of a shared future.

He finished, looked at her with a raised eyebrow, waiting. Her fear was not gone, she was married to a musketeer after all, but she understood now she would not be alone if he failed to return. Knowing this made her heart sit lighter in her chest, giving her the courage for what she did next. She sat up a little straighter, a bold expression on her face and asked him to let down her hair. He moved a hand to her hair, about to remove pins when she tilted her head, a demure look on her face, her voice low but sure, 'And when you're done, perhaps we could try exchanging gifts?'


End file.
